


A Very Dark Fic Indeed

by Creej



Category: White Collar
Genre: Apparent suicide, Betrayal, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creej/pseuds/Creej
Summary: As the title says, this is a very dark fic where there is murder, betrayal and what appears to be suicide. There are those who will consider this to be very OOC but they are for the purposes of this story so read at your own risk.





	A Very Dark Fic Indeed

Peter's lungs locked up in pain as the knife was buried in his chest and he looked up into the cold blue eyes of his partner, his brown ones wide in bewilderment. "Why?"

The question was little more than an exhalation but Neal heard it. "Why? You kept me from Kate. I should have died with her that day but instead you took the only way I had left to be with her. I _loved_ her and you made me live in a world without her in it. That's why." He pressed the knife deeper, watching dispassionately as Peter's eyes grew glassy in death before removing the weapon. He stood, stepping back from the growing pool of blood and tossed the knife into a dark corner. Pulling out his phone, he quickly dialed. "It's done. I'll see you soon." With a last look at the body, he turned and left.

 

The mood in the office over the next few weeks was grim, a dark cloud of grief at the death of a well respected agent and Neal played his part of the shell-shocked partner. He'd been with the other agents when Peter's body was found, saw the disbelief and anger, the resolve to find who'd done it. Neal had his doubts - the knife was gone and he saw them almost immediately conclude that the killer had taken the weapon with him and was now probably in a dumpster somewhere or at the bottom of the river.

 

The first sign that something was...off came when Neal sat out on the terrace, sipping a glass of red and he heard a crash come from inside. He frowned, set his glass aside and went inside to find the wine bottle shattered on the floor, the wine spreading out in a pool much as Peter's blood had that day. He let out a breath and set about cleaning up the mess, mourning the loss of a nice Shiraz, only briefly wondering what had caused the bottle to fall. It was only later - much later - that he remembered he'd set the bottle near the center of the table. There was no way it could have just fallen off.

 

Things were quiet for the next month or so before the next unexplained incident occurred. Neal got up to get ready for another day at the office, his suit laid out on the bed as he showered. When he returned, it was in shreds - the lapels of his jacket torn off, buttons gone from his shirt, long rips in the backs and sleeves of both jacket and shirt and his trousers had come apart at the seams. Even his hat was missing the brim. "What the hell...?" He gathered up the ruined suit and set it aside to be dealt with later, quickly chose another and dressed.

When he pushed through the door on the twenty first floor, he was greeted with the same air of determination that had been present since Peter's death. Settling at his desk, he opened the first of the casefiles he'd been assigned, his eyes widening a little at what was written on the post-it stuck inside: _I know what you did._ He snatched the piece of paper and crumpled it, palming it into his jacket pocket before turning his attention to his files.

He put the note out of mind, chalking it up to misinterpretation - he'd done a lot of things on both sides of the law so there was no reason to believe it referred to Peter's death. No one knew he was responsible and he'd make sure no one did. After all, he'd misled, even sabotaged cases from the inside before. And he was a past master at covering his tracks - he had an ironclad alibi for the time of Peter's demise.

It was a week or so later that things began to escalate. First, it was another note in a casefile: _Murderer_. The next was when he returned to the loft at the end of the day where he found four bottles of his most expensive wine shattered on the floor, the glass scattered everywhere - he even found some in his bed. As he cleaned up the mess, a shard of glass flew through the air and embedded itself in his leg. He dropped the glass he held with a hiss and gently extracted it, pressing a towel against the wound to stop the bleeding.

But that wasn't the end. As he inspected the cut, another piece of glass whizzed by, scoring his arm. Suddenly, the air was filled with flying glass and he bolted to the bathroom, dodging the flying missles and slammed the door closed, hearing glass bury itself in the wood on the other side. Faintly, he heard the unmistakable sound of canvas ripping - his Turner "reproduction" - and he groaned in frustration. There went weeks of work and the destruction would cost him high six figures. He waited for a slow count to sixty before he cautiously reentered the main room. All seemed quiet so he resumed cleaning up the mess, discarding the canvas with a sigh. He'd have to contact the man who'd commissioned the painting and spin a story to explain why he couldn't finish on time...and he'd have to replenish his supplies because in addition to the wine and broken glass, his paints were smeared over every piece of furniture and his brushes debristled and snapped in half. Even his palette was broken.

Finally, the place was clean and he tended to his wounds - fortunately neither was serious enough to require stitches. His stomach rumbled and he rooted around in the fridge for some leftover Chinese for dinner, all the while trying to come to grips with what had happened - the notes, the destruction in the loft, thousands of dollars of wine wasted, one of Byron's suits reduced to rags, hundreds in paints and brushes and the loss of a painting. And he had no idea who'd done it or how it was done. Sure, he'd made plenty of enemies over the years, both as a conman and as a CI but he'd seen the glass whizzing through the air, felt it bite into his skin...and he'd been alone. If he were a superstitious man, he'd think he'd acquired a poltergeist - how, he hadn't a clue. He huffed a derisive laugh at the thought - there were no such things as ghosts, noisy or otherwise. Feeling a little drained from the day's events, he called it an early day and went to bed.

 

He was awakened in the predawn hours when the bed began shaking violently and he was nearly thrown to the floor. As he picked himself up, the sheets began methodically tying themselves in knots along the length. One snapped stiff and nearly wrapped itself around his neck but he managed to duck out of the way. He staggered back, tripping over a chair and went down hard, keeping a wary eye on the sheet, waiting - for what, he didn't know. When it stayed still, in a pile on the bed, he picked himself up again and snatched the linen, tossing it away - he'd sleep without it rather than take the chance of being strangled in his sleep.

 

Every night for the next week, the performance would repeat itself - he'd be awakened well before the sun was up by a bed that shook, the sheets would tie themselves in knots and occasionally one would try to strangle him. Interspersed with this, a random bottle of wine would fly out of the rack and break on the floor, on the table, against the wall. If he had a canvas primed, it would acquire long slashes, making it useless, brushes would be ruined, paints mixed to a muddy mess. But for the most part, his wardrobe was untouched. It was a small thing to be grateful for but he was grateful nonetheless.

 

As soon as he opened his eyes, he knew something was very wrong. His arms were spread out across the bed, bound by the wrists to the legs with his ties. His legs had been subjected to the same treatment, leaving him vulnerable to whatever the...entity had in mind for him. He didn't have to wait long to find out. The utensil drawer in his kitchenette opened and a small but very sharp paring knife came floating out to hover squarely in his sightline. He began struggling as it dipped down and lightly scored his chest and stomach - not seriously, just deep enough to sting and draw blood - but his bonds held. Next the knife arrowed down to his left ankle, plunging in right where the anklet had rested. He yelled, more in surprise than in pain. 

"Who are you?" he shouted.

There was no reply but the knife moved once more to his stomach and traced two letters. Even upside down, Neal could see what they were and his heart pounded against his ribs: P.B. His next yell was from pain as the knife traced over the letters again and again, going deeper with each pass and Neal had little doubt they'd scar. He'd be marked for life with the initials of his victim.

 

Of course, all this didn't happen in a vacuum. The nightly interruptions, the relatively minor injuries were taking their toll. Neal became more jumpy - some would say paranoid - always more cautious than any given situation called for. His temper became short, being irritated by the least thing then having to apologize when he overreacted. At first he would explain his behavior as still processing Peter's death but that reason was beginning to wear thin and some of the other agents were starting to question his mental state. Increasingly, he was relegated to working cold cases at his desk since no one wanted to chance him snapping while undercover. Which meant he couldn't use his particular skills to help close cases. He'd been reduced to office drone and he was ambivalent about it. On one hand, he didn't have to worry about being in a situation where it would be easy for the entity...Peter to arrange for his death but on the other, he could feel his mind beginning to stagnate from lack of stimulation.

 

Then came a time of normalcy - no bottles broken, no knives cutting into him, no sheets trying to strangle him, no ties binding him to his bed - and he began to breathe easier, get his equilibrium back. It lasted long enough that he would have wondered if it had been his imagination but the evidence stared back at him every time he showered, carved into the flesh of his stomach. P.B. The man who'd been his handler, who'd wanted to be his friend...the man he'd felt justified in killing because he'd made him go on without Kate.

 

Then one day, his peace of mind was shattered. He came home to find a knife embedded in the table. A familiar knife that pinned a note to the surface: _You_ will _pay for what you did._ His eyes widened, not only because of the note but also because the knife had been his. It was the same one he'd buried in Peter's chest - the murder weapon, the one he'd disposed of - or thought he had. His gut clenched in dread - if the knife was found, he'd be directly tied to Peter's murder. His prints were all over it, Peter's blood still stained the blade. His breath was knocked out of him when he was suddenly slammed back against the wall, his head impacting solidly enough that he saw stars.

"Murderer. Coward." The words were low, intense, the anger unmistakable.

Neal opened his mouth to protest the label of coward but stopped himself. Looked at from one perspective, he _had_ been a coward. He'd ambushed Peter at that storage facility, taken him by surprise since Peter hadn't expected any danger from his former CI. After all, it was well established that Neal Caffrey was non violent and there had been no indication that he held any animosity toward the agent who'd caught him, that he'd held a grudge. But he'd forgotten how good a conman he was, how patient he could be to get what he wanted, even if it took years.

"What do you want?" Neal whispered shakily.

"I want you to pay for what you did."

"Are you going to kill me?"

There was silence but the air became heavy, almost suffocatingly so. "Who else?"

"What?"

"Who. Else?"

Neal was confused for a moment then it clicked. His call after he'd finished the agent - _It's done. I'll see you soon._ "No one. Just me. I swear!"

"Liar!"

"It was just me! No one else! I'm the one who killed you! She had nothing to do with it!" He clapped a hand over his mouth, appalled at what he'd said. He'd slipped, confirming that someone else had been involved or at least knew.

"She?" The tone was furious, dangerous.

"Peter...please...don't..."

"Who. Is. It?"

Neal found some courage from somewhere and raised his chin defiantly. "If you kill me, you'll never find out." He paused a moment. "Will you? Kill me?" His answer came when he was thrown across the room, stopping abruptly against the couch and he could do nothing as the loft was trashed - bottles of wine breaking against every available surface, plates, bowls, glasses smashed, his pillows exploded in a cloud of feathers, his sheets torn to shreds, his wardrobe reduced to so many rags, his mattress flipped nearly to the terrace doors. Neal curled into himself as knives and forks flew at him to stick in the walls, the chair, the couch. He waited until things died down before raising his head to survey the damage - and wondered if Peter was done.

He startled badly when there was a knock on the door followed by "Neal? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!"

"Can I come in?"

"Later. The place is a bit of a mess. Let me straighten up!" He waited for acknowledgement before standing and started the process of cleaning up. By the time he finished, he was tired and hungry and managed to scrounge an intact coffee cup for some wine and leftover Thai from the fridge, eating straight from the carton, all the while hoping Peter would allow him that much. But he had to look at the knife still buried in the table after his efforts to remove it proved fruitless.

 

The next day brought a visit from Elizabeth and her gaze went straight to the knife. She looked a question at Neal.

"I don't know where it came from," Neal said. "It was just here when I got home yesterday."

Elizabeth grabbed him, shoving him against the wall. "You were supposed to get rid of it!" she hissed.

"I did!"

"Then what's it doing _here_?"

"I don't know!"

Neal watched, wide eyed, as Elizabeth was thrown back, landing hard on the floor, stunned, watched as her eyes widened in terror as a knife came flying out of the drawer and plunged into her half a dozen times as she screamed his name, the last one silencing her as it buried itself in her chest.

 

Neal crouched, nearly catatonic, in a corner when the door burst open, followed by two cops with their guns drawn. "Sir, put the knife down." When Neal didn't respond, the officer repeated the order. This time there was a response.

"I...I didn't..." Neal whispered. He looked somewhat dazedly at the knife in his hand - the hand that was covered in blood. He looked at the officer, not even registering the gun still aimed in his direction. "It was Peter...Peter Burke. Her husband." The knife clattered to the floor as he stood, swaying slightly.

"And where is Peter now?"

"He's dead...months ago...murdered..."

"Hey Tommy, over here." The other officer gestured at the knife still in the table.

"Call CSU, tell them to get over here...and call for a bus and tell them we have a body for pick up."

 

Neal found himself in the familiar routine of a suspect awaiting trial. It was comforting in a way, not having to think too much about what he was doing. On the other hand, he had too much time to think about what happened the day Elizabeth had been murdered. He kept seeing the knife as it continually buried itself into her, seeing _his hand_ on the hilt, hearing her terrified screams until they stopped abruptly as the blade severed her aorta, the look of horror, terror and betrayal frozen on her face.

 

The day of the trial came and he found himself charged with not one but two murders - the knife in the table had been tested, coming back positive for Peter's blood and his fingerprints. That, along with the nine one one recording and the testimony of the responding officers left little doubt he was guilty. After only a little more than an hour's deliberation, the jury came back with a verdict of guilty on two counts of murder one and he was sentenced to two consecutive life sentences plus ten years since one of the victims had been a Federal officer. The only thing that saved him from the death penalty was the question of his mental capacity since he kept insisting that Peter had murdered his wife despite the fact that the agent had been killed months earlier. As a result, he was remanded into the custody of a high security mental facility to serve out his time.

 

He shivered as the door shut behind him, closing him into what would be his home for the foreseeable future. Shuffling to the bed, he curled up on the thin, hard mattress and tried to blank his mind.

"I told you you'd pay for what you did. Now, you have no Kate, no Elizabeth...just me. And you have the rest of your life to wonder if it was worth it."

 

But Neal wasn't wondering. He'd decided long since that it had been nowhere near worth it, from the loss of the first of Byron's suits to Elizabeth's death, it had been far from worth it. Now, he'd spend the rest of his life wondering if Peter would continue to exact revenge on him for ending his life so brutally.

A week later, he stopped wondering about that as well. A guard found him, still and cold, in his bed, a sheet wrapped around his neck and tied tight, his eyes wide in fear.

**Author's Note:**

> I leave it to the reader to determine Elizabeth's motives for wanting her husband out of the picture.


End file.
